The Value of Time
by juncici
Summary: She was 83 and her wrinkles told a story.


The original theme was by hattergems, _Checkers_. Changed it to chess, wtf.

I'm sorry I suck at writing. I haven't written for so long. ;___; dedicated to katiechan, direchan, sachan, rachan, gemmy, clochan, and all you other cuties I can't for the life of myself remember. Oh, happy belated birthday rachan. ;___; I wanted to write this before, but life… *sigh*

The poem is _If I should learn, in some quite casual way._

_._

_._

_._

**The Value of Time**

It tasted like metal.

It tasted like blood.

Kaito let the tears wash down his throat and stabbed through his stomach and seeped in his bloodstream, thick and unyielding and _so, so _sweet. He drunk like a starved man and there was never so much life then right now, his fingers clenching into cold stone which was, which is, suddenly such a disappointment compared to the clear, succulent blood that clung to his lips.

One minute Kuroba Kaito--no, Kaitou KID--sat convulsing in the hospital bed, the white sheets twisting as his wrists against the bindings were, the next he laid, dreamingly, in the year when he was twelve.

.

.

.

_if I should learn in some quite casual way,_

_._

_._

_._

Walk into a park, and you might see bicycles and roller-skates and rainbow hula hoops going round and round on a slim girls hips. You might see the great shadow of an ice-cream truck, unnaturally white against the backdrop of foliage. You might have even seen, under a tree, two children sitting across with a chessboard in the middle, its metallic base calling to the pieces, keeping the players grounded.

(Their names are Nakamouri Aoko, Kuroba Kaito--and her anxiety, because that deserved a spot of all of its own.)

"You fail at this." Kaito snapped, with passing hatred as pure as only a twelve year old boy could muster.

For once, Aoko ignored him. She could practically see the desire in his eyes as he turned his head slowly around to inspect the gangly legs running and pushing and kicking at each other; a group of children with their blood rushing quickly to their faces, upside down on purple monkey bars that shone under the sun. It wasn't fair that she kept him from that to help her with her chess, but life wasn't fair, and she wanted his company.

She couldn't dig for worms with Kaito and he secretly resented that.

"Your turn, Kaito."

Kaito _hmphed, _and without even glancing at the board, moved his queen to capture her rook. She flinched.

"You _suck,_" he repeated.

Aoko was losing, and neither were too surprised. Her wildly unkempt hair pressed a brunette halo around her face, tiny teeth gnawing at dry lips--the splotchy yellow sunlight spilling over her pink shirt, making it glow. Kaitos eyes wandered (unwittingly--_right_) to the skin of her thigh, tucked under her body but not from view, the pleated skirt creating teasing shadows. (He was twelve) He continued to stare until--"_Stop that!_"

A shark-toothed grin fought down flushed cheeks. "Stop what, Aoko-chan?"

"_That!_" Kaito raised an eyebrow. "_That! _The staring!"

(You can confess, right now. I like you Aoko-chan, _I--_)

His lips twisted into a vicious snarl. Bitter thoughtlessness--"How can I not? You gained so much weight it's impossible to see anything else."

_Shit. _Too harsh. He watched helplessly as her lips trembled, eyes growing shiny and bright. She was pretty like this, he thought.

Silence managed to find the children that day, enveloping them like a silver glove. It was four fingers of shame and the last of pride. It was pride that caused the silence to end, for the next words came out a whisper, reluctant and somewhat defensive.

"I'm sorry."

Aoko nodded her acknowledgement, and Kaito quickly jumped up, looking everywhere but her.

""Got 'a go," He mumbled, "Soccer match with Yoshi, I--"

So he left her there, to pick up the pieces.

* * *

I haven't written in too long.

Heard from mello-chan that practically everyone's left and such and whatever. Everyone and everything's so new and changed. I'm scared.


End file.
